Right Hand Man
by Charlie Bird
Summary: I'm a real newsboy in form and function, though perhaps not always in spirit. UPDATED Chapter Seven, in which there is much selling of papers and congratulatory backslapping. [SpotOMC slash. On hiatus.]
1. Chapter One

**Right Hand Man**

Rating: PG-13 for some mild swearing, violence, and leering at cute girls. wink, nudge

Summary: Samuel Kinney comes to Brooklyn looking for somewhere to call home and someone to call family. His large vocabulary and stiffly polite manners stand out in the harsh streets of the Bronx, but standing out won't keep Sam from desperately trying to fit in.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Newises" or anything affiliated with it. So, y'know, don't sue. I can give you some Orbit Original Flavor gum, if you want. And… some pocket lint? Ooh, I have a spiffy new TI-84 calculator for math class! How about that?

A/N: I didn't spend very much time on this chapter, so I'm not sure if it's any good. Please review, and tell me whether or not to post the next part. I know I'm having fun writing it, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it. Woot.

**  
Chapter One **

I'll never forget the first time I saw Spot Conlon. He was sitting on a throne of empty crates, reclining like a king; his gold-tipped cane as his scepter and a tattered newsboy cap as his crown. The Brooklyn newsies turned their faces up, squinting into the sun that silhouetted him, and as I was shoved to my knees in front of Spot's throne, I could feel them grow tense around me. The buzz of questions and murmuring grew louder and louder until Spot raised his hand for silence. Immediately the crowd hushed, leaving noise-making to the incoming ships and the seagulls overhead.

"State your name," Spot called down from the pile of boxes. I remained silent, out of fright or defiance – I wasn't sure. Spot frowned. "You got ears, kid? I told you once, and I won't do it again. State. Your. Name."

"Samuel Avery Jeremiah Kinney," I spat out. A titter of laughter went through the crowd.

Spot snorted in disdain. "Samuel Avery Jeremiah Kinney. That's quite a mouthful for a little mouse like you."

"Well, you're not exactly Mr. Universe yourself, are you?" I snapped. The next thing I knew, the dusty floor of the docks was a lot closer to my nose than I was comfortable with. There was a thick, heavy something on the back of my neck that felt distinctly like a shoe.

The newsies gathered behind me scoffed at my quick defeat.

"Let him up." Spot's voice came unexpected from his throne. "Burns, Tawdy… let him up." His order was accompanied by the sound of his feet hitting the ground as he jumped from the tall stack of crates. "Be nice to the little boy. He's lost his mommy, I'll bet, and he'll need our help finding his way home."

"I don't need your help, and I haven't lost my… my mother." I glared at him as I got to my feet.

"Oh, no? Then I'd guess she's lost you. Is that right?" He got up close to me, his face only inches from mine.

I didn't respond.

He shook his head in disgust. "Go away, Samuel Avery Jeremiah Kinney. This is no place for a little boy like you."

I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell him that we were the same height, and probably the same age. I wanted to lash out at him, or maybe just sink to my knees and cry. But something held me at bay. My chin dropped to my chest, and I turned around and walked away, slowly, feeling the eyes of the newsies on my back. My face burned with shame.

I had tried, hadn't I? I'd been brave going up to the newsies, asking them where to buy papers, trying my hardest to ingratiate myself into their circle. "You tried, Sam. That's enough bravery for today," I told myself. "There's always tomorrow."

It didn't work. In my head, I still heard them laughing, still heard Spot's voice echoing "Go away, go away, go away."

"Hey, you," I heard someone say behind me. I kept walking.

"Hey, kid. I'm talking to you."

I glanced over my shoulder. A tall, broad-shouldered, red-faced young man was leaning against a wooden post on the side of the pavement. I looked around me, to see who he was talking to.

"Yeah, you," he said, pointing. "Spot Conlon's boys rough you up a little?"

I nodded.

He smiled and walked towards me. "Yeah, they did that to me too. Don't let it get to you."

I stared dumbly as he held out his hand. "My name's Potato." He chuckled at my expression. "I like potatoes, what can I say? Mashed, baked, boiled – it's all fine by me."

I smiled slowly. "My name's Sam," I said. He grasped my fingers and pumped them up and down a few times for prosperity. My hand looked tiny and fragile in the hold of his muscular, hairy arm. I tried not to notice.

"Well, Sam. What're you doing around here?"

I shrugged. "Looking for work, I guess. I just needed a place to go. Figured here was as good as anywhere."

"Yeah? Well, you figured wrong. A kid like you can get beat pretty bad around these parts."

"Hey, I can take care of myself!" I stood up straight and glared.

"Whoa there, sonny boy. Don't get your feathers all rustled on account of me. I'm just telling it like it is."

I backed down. "Sorry. I've just… I'm sick of people, you know, underestimating me."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Under-what?"

"Underestimating. You know… not thinking I know what I'm doing."

Comprehension dawned in his eyes. "Ah, yeah, I see what you mean. Well, I used to be a pretty scrawny bastard myself, so I guess I ain't one to talk. So, Sam, you say you're looking for work?"

I nodded.

"Today must be your lucky day. I've been looking around for a selling partner – this paper business ain't half bad if you've got someone watching your back. How's about it?"

"Well, what exactly would that entail?" I asked.

He paused.

I rephrased myself. "I mean… what do you mean by 'selling partner'?"

"Ah, you know, we both dish up the money we've got, buy a couple hundred papes, sell 'em together, and split the profits."

"I see."

"You see? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I…," I weighed the prospects. I didn't really like the idea of having to share my profits, but then again, I didn't even know how to get papers in the first place, much less where I was going to sleep tonight, or the next night. "Okay," I said, after a moment's silence. "I'm in."

"Alright!" Potato's wide face broke into a shining smile. "It's too late to start today, the sun's already setting, and I've already sold all my papes, but come on with me, and we'll find somewhere to spend the night. Oh, hey, wait, we gotta shake on this, though." He spit in his hand and held it out.

I stared the saliva slowly dripping down the curve of his palm for a moment, and tried to keep a grimace off my face. Then I grasped it with my own spit-covered hand, and we shook hands for a second time.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own "Newises" or anything affiliated with it. Alas.

**A/N:** Oh my golly gee! People actually reviewed my fic! Umm… two whole people! Hahaha, yes, well. Thank you so much, love97 and time is a waste of life. To answer your question, love97, yes, Sam is the underdog… but not for long! Muahahaha! Foreshadowing! And a merry christmas to you too, 'time is a waste of life'. (Can I abbreviate that to, like, TiaWoL, or something?)

_Anyway_, I have rambled on for long enough. Here we go with… Chapter Two! (creative title, isn't it?)

**Chapter Two  
**

As the sun began to sink below the East river, Potato took me to a boarding house a little south of the Bronx. From the outside it looked shabby and rundown, but the interior was cozy and well-lit. The sign on the door said that a bunk was a nickel, and dinner was a nickel more. I began searching my pockets for any pennies I might have missed when scouring them earlier, but Potato never asked for any money, and neither did the young lady at the boarding house's front desk.

Instead, the girl – who Potato affectionately greeted as "wench" – led us over to a table with assorted armchairs in the corner of the front room. We were seated for only a few minutes before she returned with two bowls and two mugs. The mugs were filled to the brim with piping hot coffee, and the bowls steaming with a thick stew, chock full of boiled potatoes, spiced carrots and little chunks of some kind of meat. It was, by no means, a high-class meal, but it was more food than I'd had all week.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, young woman?" Potato said, as our server plopped down into the chair next to him.

She rolled her eyes and gave his shoulder a shove. "I'll be fine, Potato-head."

"You have school tomorrow, Lisa." he said warningly.

Lisa put a hand to her mouth in mock horror and surprise before rolling her eyes again. "I'll be _fine._ Mummy said I should help out more around the house, and that's exactly what I'm doing."

Potato wrinkled his nose. "I think she meant something more like doing laundry for the family, not staying out until all hours at the boarding house."

"Perhaps it was open to interpretation," I said quietly.

Lisa turned to look at me for the first time and then looked back at Potato questioningly.

"How rude of me!" Potato said. "Lisa, this is Sam. Sam, this is Lisa." He turned back to his stew.

I coughed nervously. "I, uh, I assume you two are siblings?"

"Yes," Lisa said with a sigh. "He's two years older, though you'd never be able to tell if it weren't for his stunning intellect." I laughed and Potato regarded us both with a blank expression.

"I just called you stupid, brother dearest," she said.

"Oh. Hey! That's not fair!"

The three of us laughed. A few minutes later, Lisa kissed Potato on the cheek and left us to go help a group of five or so boys who had just entered.

"Your sister is nice," I said.

"Yeah, she's a good kid. Don't you go getting any ideas though, buster. She's strictly off limits," he said, pointing a warning finger at me.

I nodded solemnly.

"Now then," Potato said, leaning back in his chair, and folding his arms over his stomach, "we should talk selling strategies. You ever sold papes before?"

I shook my head.

"Right, didn't think so. Well, first thing you gotta learn…" he paused. "Actually, I don't really know what the first thing you gotta learn is, so I guess there aren't really any rules. Basically, you wanna be the loudest, noisiest, most 'out there' guy around, right? So people will come to you instead of everyone else, because they hear you first."

"That makes sense," I said. "But…"

"But what? It's pretty simple, kid."

"No, no, I understand. It's just that… sometimes there isn't anything good in the news. And if nothing interesting is happening, then nobody is going to buy papers, correct? So, how do I sell then?"

A scruffy looking kid in a tweed cap, who was playing cards at the table next to us, let out a loud, irritated sigh. He turned around and stared right at me. "Potato's got it all wrong. There are rules," he said, snootily. "And the _first_ thing, absolute _first_ thing you gotta learn is this: Headlines don't sell newspapers – _newsies_ sell newspapers." The boys sharing his table nodded and murmured in agreement.

"Hey, put a lid on it, will you? He's _my_ partner, and I'll be the one telling him what to do, y'hear?" Potato said, glaring at the table. "Now then," he said, and turned back to me, "I have to admit – Smitty has a point. Newsies sell papes, whether the headlines is good or not. It's our job; it's what we gotta do. Even if there ain't nothing happening, we've still gotta get the word out. So, you hafta do what you can. Headline's slow? Make something up. Find a piece that ain't quite detailed enough? Put your own details in it! Use your imagination."

"But that's lying!" I objected.

"And what you think the big guys who write the stuff do? Half of what you read in the papers ain't true. Don't matter to nobody. They read what they like, and they like what they read," Potato said.

"I still don't like lying."

"You'll get over it," Potato stated. "And you'll get the hang of it too. You're a quick one, Sam."

I smiled modestly. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah. Come one, I'll show you where you're gonna sleep," he said, standing up.

I nodded to the table of card-players as we passed them. The boy named Smitty gave a grudging nod back in my direction.

The room Potato led me to was a bit reminiscent of my old school dormitory. It was low-ceilinged and long, with rows of bunk beds, most of which were filled. Between the bunk beds were wooden crates upon which rested various personal affects, like mugs and hats and photographs. Closest to the door of the room was a row of sinks and mirrors. There were three stalls against the left wall which I assumed were bathrooms.

The room was buzzing with activity, though it wasn't particularly noisy. Boys wandered around in various states of undress, preparing for bed, chatting with one another, playing cards and dice, and a select few actually trying to sleep.

Potato showed me to a free bunk against the far back wall. "This one will be yours. You can, you know, decorate it or whatever." We stood silently for a moment, face to face, before he spoke up again. "I guess that's it. I'll just, y'know, leave." He cleared his throat.

"Right. Well. Thank you," I said.

"Yeah, sure."

"Um. Potato?"

"Yeah?"

"You run this place, don't you?"

He smiled with a shy sort of pleasure. "Yeah. Well, I mean, my family does. My dad really owns it, but, y'know, we all help out." He nodded. "It's a living, right?"

"Right."

"Well…" he turned to leave.

"Potato?"

"Yeah?"

"How, um, how did you… know that I…" I gestured helplessly.

"How'd I know that you needed a place to go?" he asked.

I nodded, blushing.

"Instinct." His face broke into a wide grin, and he turned and walked away.

* * *

Please review! Thanks! 333 


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** Do I need another disclaimer? I think we've established that I don't own "Newsies" or anything affiliated with it, and that – sadly – I never will. 

**A/N:** Advance warning – this is a pretty long chapter. I was sure that I was going to cover way more ground than I actually did in Chapter Three, but I guess it ended up being mostly dialogue between Potato and Sam (Probably because I love writing Potato so much. He's a really fun character, and you get to know him a little more in this chapter.) Do tell me if I went overboard and dragged it on for too long. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

My first night in the boarding house passed uneventfully. The other boys mostly ignored me. It seemed they all had their own, tight-knit group of friends, each with a distinct system of class and seniority, and I wondered how I would ever fit in among them. I didn't ponder it for long though. The stew had left me full and sleepy, and I was grateful to have a bed to lie in.

The next morning dawned bright and chilly. All around me, newsboys readied themselves for their usual working day. I tried not to be distracted by their chatter, and to concentrate on the task ahead of me. For some reason I couldn't explain, I felt nervous. "_Don't be silly, Sam. How hard can selling newspapers really be?_"

* * *

"Extra, extra! Government moves to outlaw trash fires near apartment complexes! Debates between Armstrong and Roosevelt cause adverse reaction among French immigrants! Extra! Extra…"

I counted as the forty-eighth consecutive person passed me by without buying a newspaper. Dejected, I slumped down against the brick wall behind me. Potato had bought me fifty papers this morning, and I had sold all of seven. The chill from this morning was gone and the sun beat down hard against the top of my head. In half an hour or so the afternoon edition of the paper would be released, and my papes would be good for nothing but wrapping fish.

"Heya, Sam, how's it going?" I looked up to see Potato standing in front of me.

"It's barely going at all," I said with a sigh. "I've sold seven papers, and four of them were only because a carriage driver knocked me over and spilled them in the dirt and then felt sorry for me. I'm sorry, Potato, I just don't think I can do this."

"Yeah, well, I think you're wrong. You've just gotta keep at it, Sam. You'll catch on eventually." He patted me on the back fraternally.

"I don't really understand what I'm doing wrong though. I'm yelling and waving just as loud as the other boys."

"Well, maybe that ain't good enough. Most of us newsies have a sort of a… a… a gimmick, y'know? Like a personal touch. Besides that, you gotta have a good place to sell. This here street corner… it's not so great," Potato said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Well, it's mostly carriages and carts and things that pass by here. Not too many people on foot, and the ones that do walk by are business men who get their news from where they work or have their papes laid out for them at the breakfast table."

"So I should go and find a new spot?"

"Yeah, but not now. Everybody but the coppers are eating lunch right now, and coppers don't by papes."

"They don't?"

"Nah."

"Why not?"

"Everything a copper would need to know from a paper he could get by asking his friends on the beat. Murders, robberies, scams… that's all coppers talk about, so what would they do with the paper?" Potato said.

"He could read the international news, or the stock page, or the – "

Potato cut me off. "You think anyone actually reads those parts?"

I hesitated. "Well, yes. I mean… well… I read them."

Potato threw his head back and laughed. "You're a real piece of work, Sam. Let's go get lunch."

* * *

Once we'd finished eating, Potato went back to the circulation center and bought thirty of the afternoon edition. I asked him why he'd bought so few, and he told me that most of the afternoon papers got sold by school kids who came by and bought papers once they were done with their lessons. He informed me that he'd been one of those kids at one point too, but that he'd quit school when his fifth brother had been born and there was a fire in the lodging house. "It was pretty tough for a while, and with eight kids to feed –"

"Eight?"

"Me, five brothers, you met Lisa, and then there's the little girl, Josie. That makes eight."

"Plus your parents makes ten. That's… that a lot of people."

"Yeah, well, we got by. In the end, it was having a big family that saved us. We all worked. I sold papers full time, mum did sewing, Lisa did laundry, and Skip, Spade and Greg sold papers in the afternoon. Dad spent his days repairing the lodging house so we could open it back up again."

"Do you ever miss it?" I asked.

"Miss what?" Potato said.

"School. Learning. Books," I said as we walked to his selling spot.

"Nah. I ain't very good with that sort of thing. Lisa and Greg are the smart ones. They got all the brains. Me, Skip, Spade, Lars, we're not much good at that. Can't tell about Josie yet, but I reckon she'll be smart like mum – ain't really book smarts, but it's a knack for sort of knowing the way things are, y'know?" Potato handed me his papers while he took his cap out of his pocket and put it on. I gave them back, and watched as he started his selling.

I didn't know much about newspapers, but I could tell that Potato was good at what he did. His voice was loud and strong and clear, and it carried well across the busy street. He waved his papers in the air, and was brief, but engaging, with customers. Every now and then he'd page through a pape, find a few words that stuck out, and make something up. "French Immigration Quota Expanded against Governor's Wishes" became "Frenchies flood our country, bringing with them disease and laziness! King of France sends French rejects to America!"

I didn't like it that he lied, but it seemed to work better than anything I had tried. I also noticed that Potato was right about what the people wanted to read. For every customer that bought a paper to read about a drop in stock points, there were six that bought a paper to read about the murder of a guard on Ellis Island.

Before two hours had passed, Potato was sold out, and said we had the rest of the day to ourselves. As we walked to the East River docks, he reached into his pocket and pulled out all the money he'd made. He asked me how much I'd got. "Eight cents," I told him, scuffing my shoes against the dirty cobblestones.

"Alright. What's eighty eight cents, two ways?" he asked.

"Forty four," I responded automatically.

He handed me everything from his pocket. "Take forty four."

"I can't take this! It's your money!" I exclaimed. Forty-four cents would be enough for four nights at the lodging house and two buttered rolls.

"I'm not telling you to take all of it. Just combine it with what you've got and split it in two." He shrugged as though it were the most casual thing in the world. "Besides, it's not my money. We're partners, remember? We sell what we can and then split the profits."

I shook my head. "It's too much. I can't take all that. Besides, I barely sold anything at all." I hadn't held more than a dollar in my hand since… I couldn't remember when the last time I'd held more than a dollar had been.

"Alright, take forty cents then."

"No, really –"

"Don't be a dumbass, Sam, just take the money." Potato grinned at me and shook his head.

"I… I…" I trailed off.

Potato put on a high falsetto voice. "Why, thank you, Mr. Potato! You're too kind to me! Really! However can I repay you?" He laughed at his own imitation.

"My voice is _not_ that high!" I protested, but I couldn't be angry. "Thank you, Potato," I said, and carefully separated the money in half.

Before long, we reached the docks where we'd first met. I could barely believe it had been only yesterday that we'd shook hands on our deal.

As we rounded a corner, I caught sight of a few vaguely familiar faces. I felt a red tinge creep up my neck as I recalled my humiliation from the previous afternoon. Some of the ragged newsies we passed recognized me, and scoffed and whispered as I walked passed. I wanted to disappear.

"Here we are," Potato proclaimed, holding his hands out.

I looked around. The place we were standing looked exactly like every place we'd passed before it. There were empty crates littered around, wooden poles covered in bird-droppings, coils of rope, piles of rags, and everywhere were the smells of fish and engine oil.

"This," Potato said, "is where I leave you."

"What? You can't leave me! What am I supposed to do?" My voice grew embarrassingly loud and high-pitched as I exclaimed.

Potato smiled at me. "Make friends, that's what." He patted my shoulder, tipped his cap, and strolled off, leaving me confused and blushing and wishing I were back home.

* * *

So, that was Chapter Three. I hope you liked it. Quick shout-outs to my three beautiful reviewers!

**TWL – **I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. Happy New Year to you too!  
**  
lil ms kp –** I'm glad you like my style. I'm always a little worried that I sound too stiff, or don't describe enough, or some other little thing (because I'm reeeeally obsessive compulsive about writing), so it makes me happy to hear that you think I'm good.  
**  
love97 –** Ahhhh! I'm on someone's favorite story list! Yay! I'm glad you like Potato. I like him to! There should be more Potatoes in the world.

Please review! Every review makes me giggle with pleasure. Okay, I don't actually giggle, but nonetheless, reviews make me a very happy boy. Yay!


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Wow. I'm really sorry that this chapter was so long in coming. I put it off over winter break, and then I was struck with a horrible bout of writer's block, and when I finally got some new ideas, I had to take my midterms. Luckily, I'm done with exams now, and getting back in the swing of things. My resolution for the new semester is to spend less time on Spanish homework, and more time writing!

Anyway… this chapter is actually pretty short. I've been rethinking how I want the story to go, and I sort of wish I hadn't been so quick on the draw to post it because I sort of want to change things around now. Oh well, too late I suppose.

Enjoy! And review, for the love of… of… Racetrack! Yes. For the love of Racetrack.

* * *

**Chapter Four **

I stayed alone on those docks for what felt like hours. Half the time I spent stewing in anger at what Potato had done, and then once I got over that, I spent the rest of the time worrying about how to get back the lodging house. The sun was starting to set when I heard voices approaching me. I fought the urge to run, and was pleasantly surprised to see a few familiar faces.

Smitty, in his tweed cap and dirty white undershirt, came strolling up the road, followed by a small entourage, some of whom I recognized as card players from the lodge last night.

I summoned up my nerves and called out as they passed me. "Hello? Smitty, right?" He nodded. "I'm Sam." His face was blank of recognition. "We met at the lodging house briefly last night. You, uh, you told me the first thing that every newsie has to learn."

A light dawned in his eyes and he gave a wry grin. "Right, right, I remember. You're Potato's new friend, huh?" He looked around. "Where's the old bastard at now? Lurking somewhere?"

I shook my head. "Actually, I… well, to be honest… I'm… not sure where he is."

"Hah! He left you here?" Smitty's entourage chuckled at my predicament.

I nodded bashfully.

"Lemme guess. He said you had to make friends." I nodded again. Smitty rolled his eyes. "The dumb lunk and his damned sentimentality. He's at it again."

"He did the same thing to me," one of Smitty's crew volunteered, smiling at me. "That's how I met all these fella's."

"Yeah, me too," said another boy. "Only I was hanging with Dazy and his bunch back then, before he found out I kissed his sister." The group chuckled. "They beat me up good," the boy told me, "and then Potato took me back the boarding house, and stuck me on the dock, and then I met y'all," he said, gesturing at his mates. The group descended into a brief hubbub of reminiscence.

"Well then," said Smitty after a minute went by. "I suppose it's our duty to befriend you now. That's obviously what old 'Tater had in mind. Welcome to the Smitty gang." There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the crew. "Gather round, gather round, we need proper introductions!" he said.

"Alright. This here," he grasped a lanky blonde boy by the shoulders, "is Tristan."

"Like the cracker," Tristan provided helpfully. "I like crackers."

I nodded, though I'd never heard of Tristan crackers. Tristan blinked at me curiously, and twitched his nose a few times.

"This is Sparky," Smitty said, gesturing to a short boy with curly brown hair and a round, freckled face. "And that's Sparky's brother, Plugs." Plugs was also brown-haired and freckle-faced, but slightly taller than Sparky. He looked as though he'd had his nose broken more than once.

"This is Winner," said Smitty. Winner was the boy who had spoken about someone named Dazy and Dazy's sister. He was tall and well-built, with light brown hair and light green eyes. He gave me a dashing grin at the mention of his name, and a cocky bow of his head.

"And this is Adrien." Adrien was the other boy who had spoken up about being left on the docks. He was small, but he looked fierce, an appearance that was accentuated by his bright red hair. I wondered at his lack of a nickname. He nodded at me cordially.

"And you are…?" Smitty paused.

"Samuel Avery…. And then something with a 'K,' right? I saw you at the docks the other day," Plugs said.

"Oh, is he the one who called Spot a midget?" Sparky asked. Plugs grabbed him by the shoulders and shushed him, seemingly embarrassed.

"I never called anyone a midget!" I said in protest. My face flushed. How could I have assumed that news of my humiliation wouldn't travel around the area?

"Nah, but you might as well have," Plugs said. "To be honest, I'm surprised you're still hanging around. Spot doesn't take things like that lightly."

"Yeah," said Tristan, nodding enthusiastically, "the way people were talking, you would've been better off hauling out and punching him."

"Spot isn't to be messed with," Smitty said. "You gotta know that if you're gonna live around here. And if you are sticking around, then you'd best watch your back."

"He's not going to… come after me or anything, is he?"

"Nah, not by himself. He might send some goons to rough you up, or take a shot at you from a rooftop, but what you most gotta worry about it your reputation. Rumors will start spreading, and if they spread from Spot then there ain't no doing nothing that'll stop people from believing them." We started walking as Smitty continued to talk. "So you're pretty lucky that we're still associating with you. Your job now is to stay quiet and humble. Keep your head down. Don't try to weasel up to nobody, and don't go picking fights with nobody."

"Yeah, he don't seem like the type to do that sort of thing, does he?" Sparky said, and everybody chuckled.

"Worst thing this one could do is vocabulary you to death," came a voice from the road ahead. "Hey there, little fella'. Looks like you made yourself some pals." Potato came into view out of the rapidly descending dark. "I was just setting out to look for you. Figured you might have got yourself lost."

"Nah," said Winner, "he knew exactly where he was, right Sam?"

"Right," said Adrien, "he knew he was exactly lost!"

* * *

Okay, so in lieu of shout-outs or anything, I'm going to ask you brilliant Newsies-fans a question. Call it a trivia question, if you will – mostly it's just that I've watched "Newsies" at _least_ fifty times and I still can't figure it out. I've watched the opening to "Carrying the Banner" over and over. Y'know the cute kid who's sucking his thumb and sharing a bunk with someone? What I'm wondering is… does he ever show up again? There's this adorable moment with him and the other dude, but then – as far as I can tell – he just… disappears. Duhn-duhn-duhnnnnn.

So, yeah, if you know the answer let me know, and I'll write you a fic or give you a cookie or sell you my soul or something. Thanks!

P.S. REVIEW! :D


	5. Chapter Five

A/N: And another chapter, _less_ than a week after the previous one! The style may be lacking, but you can't beat it for service! Haha, yeah right. I will be forever envious of people who can write a good, medium-length, well thought out chapter in less than a week.

Anyway, here we go with Chapter Five. It didn't turn out the way I wanted it to – I originally planned the dream sequence for a much later time – but I think it works okay anyway. At any rate, you get to know more about Sam's history. Yay for backstory!

**Chapter Five**

We got to the lodging house a little while later, still joking and laughing. Tristan had shouldered up to me through the entire walk back, babbling on about the joy and perfection of crackers.

Dinner that night was much the same as it had been the night before – filling and warm and welcome. This time, I joined Smitty and his fellows in their usual after dinner poker game. We didn't play for money, luckily, just for little slips of colored paper and some odds and ends like marbles.

"Alright, fellas, pot's light, ante up." Sparky said, tapping the deck against the table and shuffling rapidly. We all threw a brown paper into the middle.

The game continued rapidly, sometimes too rapidly for me to follow (except that I knew I was losing), and the conversation turned to other subjects. In particular… women.

Winner did most of the talking, regaling us with tales of his latest exploits. Smitty added in the occasional dirty joke, or sarcastic comment. Plugs also had a fair amount to share. Tristan did nothing but blush and giggle. Sparky concentrated mostly on dealing and shuffling (and winning); I got the feeling that he was embarrassed by listening to his older brother.

Adrien was the only one who stayed completely silent. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and twisted the little ring he wore on his pinky around and around. After a few rounds were through, he stood up and bid us all goodnight. "Carryin' the banner," he said, and waved at us briefly before walking out of the lodge. I watched him through the window, and noticed his shoulders droop in relief the moment he stepped outside.

The conversation continued on through the game, even after Plugs and Sparky left, and followed us up to the bunk room. Winner seemed to have a never-ending supply of raunchy things to relate, and I was stunned that Tristan and Smitty never seemed to tire of it, though they did moan when – towards the end of the evening – he launched into stories that they'd already heard before.

Gradually we all grew tired, and Smitty and Tristan wandered off to where they slept. Winner had a top bed only a few bunks away from mine.

"Well, Sammy boy, I guess that's that" said Winner, with a wink. "Have a good night."

"Don't…" I muttered.

"Don't what"

I looked at him, trying not to be angry. "Please don't call me that."

"What, Sammy boy" Winner asked.

"Yes. Please don't." I shrugged off my shirt, and climbed into bed.

_"C'mon Sammy boy. It'll be fun. It'll be easy."_

_"I told you, Johnson, I'm not interested."_

_"Jesus. What an ass-kisser. Huh, boys"_

_He shivered in his thin sweater, wishing that the gang of surrounding boys would just leave him alone. "Please, I have to go. I've got gymnasium."_

_"Jesus, Sam. Where's your spirit, huh? Where's your school spirit" Johnson gave him a mean-spirited shove._

_"Please, just let me "_

_Johnson shoved him again, harder this time, and Sam tripped over his laces and stumbled in the wet grass. "You like that? You wanna play it rough? C'mon, Sammy-boy. C'mon, faggot."_

_The gang chuckled and cracked their knuckles._

_"Stop it, please, I'm not a... a faggot. Just let me go, please."_

_Johnson pushed him into the mud, and kicked his side. "Damned faggot. You should be shot." The surrounding boys moved in closer._

_"Please, please, stop it, please"_

_"Come with us then. You want me to stop? Come with us." Johnson kicked him again. "You want me to let you go, faggot? I don't know; I think you like it." He put a heavy foot on Sam's stomach and pressed. "You like that"_

_"No, please, no…"_

_Johnson pressed. "Come with us tonight, come with us. Help us put the frogs in Master Collin's bed and I'll stop."_

"_No, I can't."_

"_Tell you what: you put the frogs in by yourself, and don't get caught, and I'll never push you again. How's that, faggot"_

_"Please" Sam coughed. Johnson pressed harder and harder and Sam started gasping for breath. "Please, stop" he wheezed in and out. "I'll do it, I'm sorry, I'll do it." Johnson let up._

_"What'd you say, Sammy-boy"_

_"I'll do it. I'll put the frogs in his bed."_

_"Tonight"_

_"Yes, tonight."_

_Johnson stepped back, and let Sam struggle to his feet. "You promise" Something in his voice changed._

_"Yes." Sam gave a few experimental coughs. His lungs ached._

_"Yes what" And the cold, harsh voice was back._

_"Yes, I promise. I'll put the frogs in his bed tonight."_

_"That's my boy. Go on to gymnasium, you're covered in mud." Johnson and his friends laughed and walked away, brushing past Sam roughly._

_Covered in mud. Covered in mud. Covered in…_

I woke up with a gasp, still feeling the muddy clothes clinging to my back. It took me a moment to remember where I was. It was dark outside, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to fall asleep again. I rose and went to the window. Outside, the streets were empty. Though I knew they were dirty and polluted, they looked fresh and unmarred by the clopping of horses and the noisy chatter of the daytime city. I was tempted to go down and be the first to disturb the fresh layer of dew.

Behind me, the bunks were still soft with the breath and quiet snores of the other newsies. Though the room was calm and somnolent, I was swept with a sudden wave of claustrophobia. Newsies weren't supposed to leave the house until one half hour before the first press circulation, but I needed to get out. I grabbed my jacket, cap, and shoes from the crate next to my bunk and snuck to the door, caught up in a sudden disregard for rules.

The cool fog hit me like an electric shock and I shivered, but my muddy head began to clear, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I tripped silently down the still shadowy streets.

My usual path went around the corner, from the lodging house towards the circulation center, but today I felt the need for something different and went the opposite way. I walked quickly in the brisk air, and as the lodging house disappeared into the morning mist behind me I broke into a run.

I'd never been one for sports - I preferred staying indoors and reading, or taking longs walks in the forest near the school. I was, however, a speedy runner and prided myself in that solitary sportsman-like skill. Within a few minutes I felt the fog getting thicker and knew that I was nearing the docks of the East River. I could barely see my hand in front of me in the murky light, though the sun's first rays were starting to creep feebly over the horizon in front of me.

I felt a change in the ground under my feet and knew that I'd reached my unintentional destination. I slowed to a walk and looked down at the weathered wood of the docks to avoid tripping. Gradually the scent of fish in the air grew thicker and I began to listen to the lapping of the river far below me.

In front of me the dock dropped away and I stood for a moment, watching the black water ripple around the barnacle-covered supports. For a split second, I thought about jumping in, letting my body fall and fall, and maybe, just before I hit the water with a slap, some unknown force would pick me up and carry me away, and I'd fly higher and higher above the fog, over the river, through the clouds, and away. Away somewhere, I didn't know where. Home maybe, wherever that was. But before the idea could gain momentum, it passed through my mind and I sat down on the edge of the dock with a sigh.

I contemplated the water for a while as the fog began to lift before realizing that I was not alone. A shuffle of movement on my right startled me out of my reverie. It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. It was Spot. The same Spot who insulted and humiliated me a just few days before was lying propped up against a post only a pace or two away. His pointed chin was slumped downward, and his mouth hung slightly open. I approached him cautiously, but his deep breathing assured me that he was asleep. The early morning rays cast their weak light gently across his cheeks, which were still flushed from some form of nighttime debauchery. He smelled strongly of gin and cigarette smoke.

As I watched, he stirred again, struggling feebly against the deep ties of sleep. His brows furrowed momentarily, and then he relaxed again, sinking deeper into his dreams. With the fog surrounding him, and his face free of malice or judgmental taunts, he looked almost… angelic.

I hesitated, looked quickly over my shoulders, and then reached out a tentative hand. My fingers brushed lightly across his forehead, and down his temple to the ridge of his cheeks. I studied the curl of his eyelashes and the gentle curve of his nose. After a moment, I leaned back and settled on my knees, and just watched him as he slept.

It wasn't until I heard the sounds of soft voices and a carriage somewhere that I realized how late it was getting. The sun was almost entirely risen, and no doubt the lodging house would be waking soon, if it hadn't already.

I stood, took one final look at Spot, and hurried away.

Awww. Drunk!Spot makes me happy. And I'm glad to say that drunk!Spot will reappear. Several times, if I get my way.

Shout-outs!

**Love97 – **Egads! You're right! It is Snitch! As first person to respond, you now get your choice of a cookier, a piece of fanfiction, or my soul. Lucky you. Also… there's not telling what direction Sam's new friends will steer him in. Do keep in mind that they're a gang (or at least they call themselves that) and they're all a little neurotic. I'm not sure if that bodes well for fastidious, naïve, young Sam.

**Two-Bits – **Oh man. Please, point me in the direction of Snitch/Itey slash right away. That is _perfect_. By the way, I enjoyed AIM conversation – short, yet fulfilling. Do hope to see you online again sometime.

**Utopia Today – **I love verbing words! That is, making words not ordinarly used as verbs into verbs. Such as "this film, _starring_ Kate Beckinsale and Hugh Jackman," or "I can't grammar good." The latter example was said by a boy named Emmett a few days ago – he's the model for Tristan's personality. Almost all my characters have some basis in reality, which is why – I hope – they seem so real.

Thanks for the reviews, y'all. You're beautiful and I adore you. That's right. Now go review again, and tell your friends about "Right Hand Man" too. I must fly, "Lost" starts in 4 minutes, and god forbid I should miss Dominic Monaghan on my TV screen!


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N:** Yay! I beat my writer's block! And I beat it so quickly that I bet you didn't even know I _had_ writer's block! Haha! I crow victoriously, a lá Peter Pan. :sings: I gotta crowwwww… cock-cock-a-doooo!

Or however that goes.

Before I forget, I have something amusing to tell y'all: I had a really long car drive to do on Thursday night (we're talking more than three hours... on a _school night._) My dad and I stopped to get some food on the way. He was being horrendously slow, and I was already finished eating, so I stole his leaky pen and grabbed a flimsy paper napkin and started writing. I started writing "Newsies" fanfiction. On a napkin. In a Mexican fastfood resturanst. MY LOVE FOR "NEWSIES" KNOWS NO BOUNDARIES! Hahaha. I won't tell you what I wrote though, because it's a section of "Right Hand Man" that's full of fun spoilers. I was, however, so proud of my bohemian napkin scribblings that I took pictures of it. Feel free to e-mail or IM me if you want to see them. Anyway...

I'd also like to apologize briefly for not warning you guys about the subtle slashiness at the end of the previous chapter. I should probably put a warning at the beginning of the first chapter as well, because this story will eventually turn into slash. But honestly? I'm trying to make this fic as realistic as I possibly can, and essentially that demands that all references to slash be done in the utmost subtlety, as they would have in 1900. (But if I didn't put any slash in at all, then what kind of self-respecting, partly-gay boy would I be?)

Anyway! That took longer than I'd meant it to. On with the fic-ness! And… you'll never believe it… something _important_ happens in this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

The rest of the morning passed much as the as the previous one had. Potato and I bought a hundred papers. He took seventy, I took thirty, and yet he still sold out before I did. I observed his technique again for the afternoon edition. At one point, I thought I had it all figured out, so Potato gave me a couple papers. By the time I finally managed to get rid of them, even the afternoon sellers from the nearby school house were finishing up, and Potato had long since wandered off to talk to a lovely young thing selling flowers across the street. It took a few minutes to draw him away from her, but I was tired and annoyed, and I think Potato knew that, so he wrapped up the conversation as quickly as he could.

We met up with Smitty back at the lodge for supper. Tristan and Winner showed up for poker later on, as did Adrien. Plugs and Sparky were not present, probably spending the evening with their own family. In lieu of Sparky's quick-witted, fast-paced dealing, Smitty took over. Lucky for me, that evening's conversation treated mostly on local newsboy politics and recent fistfights. We must not have been paying much attention to the game, because we were startled to realize that the vast majority of the brown and white slips of paper we gambled with were in a large pile in front of Adrien.

"Phew! Damn, poker face, you're pretty good at this when you don't got Sparky to try and compete with!" Smitty gave a low, appreciative whistle.

Adrien gave a wicked, self-satisfied grin. I hadn't even realized he was winning; he kept so quiet about it.

Winner nodded in agreement. "That's a damn good poker face."

We played a last round – which Adrien won – before going to bed. We bid Adrien goodnight at the foot of the stairs.

"Sleep good, Pokerface. Carryin' the banner."

"Carryin' the banner," Adrien replied as he walked to the door.

"G'night, Pokerface!" Smitty called after him.

And with that, we went upstairs.

The rest of the week passed with monotonous regularity. Every day was the same; Potato sold his papers and lost money on my behalf, and then we hung around at the docks, or went back to the lodging house, or roamed the streets of Brooklyn (and sometimes beyond). We played poker almost nightly. The group varied: sometimes Potato joined in, sometimes not. "Pokerface" and Smitty were regulars, but Winner passed up on the game every now and then for a date. Sparky and Plugs (who seemingly never went anywhere without each other) usually played, but never on Friday nights or Saturdays. After my first few games, I took to just watching – I didn't like the guilt that accompanied gambling. Whether it was with slips of paper or real coins, it still had an distinct aura of illegality to me.

The next Tuesday dawned remarkably sunny, and the heady aromas of spring started the fill the air. Most of the newsboys were enlivened and invigorated by the change in weather, but Potato seemed rather withdrawn when Smitty and I met up with him outside the lodging house that morning. He kept shooting me nervous glances, and looking away when I caught him watching.

He drew me aside from the others as we reached the circulation center. "Sam? I, ah, needs to talk to you."

"Is anything the matter?" I asked. It was, upon reflection, a stupid question.

"I guess so. It's just, I've been thinking."

I resisted the obvious jokes to be made about Potato thinking. A moment went by without him speaking. "And…?" I prompted.

He fidgeted nervously. "Look, Sam, here's how it is. You're a great kid. You're pickin' up on the newsie thing, you know? It's just…"

I cut him off. "I get it. It's fine. I understand." Despite being a foot or so taller, he managed to look up at me hopefully. "I know, all I'm doing is wasting your money. You need your own to survive on."

"No, no," Potato said, "it's not that, it's just that… well…"

I waited patiently.

"Yeah," he said finally, with a heaving sigh, "I guess that is it. Not that I don't like you or nothing," he added quickly, "but – "

"Honestly, Potato, it's alright. I understand. I can make it on my own." I tried to be as reassuring as I could, but I could feel my heart sinking into my stomach. I should have known that his charity would only last for so long. The newsboy lifestyle was a volatile (not to mention expensive) profession to maintain, and trying to buy twice the papers, knowing that they won't all be sold, wasn't something that Potato could afford to do every day.

Potato smiled at me weakly. "I'm glad everything's alright with us then. I'll buy some papes for today, and then be off." We got in line. He bought only thirty papers, which he handed to me, and then wandered off without any of his own. I must have been staring as he walked off, because I was startled by Smitty's voice behind me.

"Yeah, that's what Potato does," he said, correctly interpreting my confusion. "Finds a newsie, helps him out, gets him on his feet, and then goes back to doing whatever he does. Potato ain't no newsie. Just a… a whatchacallit? Y'know…"

"Comrade?" I suggested. "Ally?"

"Yeah, yeah, one of them allies. He's a newsie ally. Fun, ain't it?" He didn't wait for my reply before walking off to hawk his own headlines.

That was that, then. Potato was off "doing whatever he does," and everyone else was selling their papers much more rapidly than I could even dream of. That left me with the problem of who to sell with, how to sell, where to sell, and – to be entirely honest – _what_ to sell, since the headlines today were barely worth skimming.

I wandered out of the circulation center and down the street, papers at my side. I didn't even bother trying to hawk; the area was still thick with other newsboys who were selling their wares on the way as they walked to their usual spots.

Gradually though, as I got farther and farther from the lodging house, I realized that the reason I wasn't selling was simply because I lacked the motivation. The excuse sounded silly, even in my head, but I wasn't selling because I didn't _feel_ like selling. Of course, having neither a reliable income, nor much pocket change should have been all the more incentive to sell out quickly. Still, I found myself struck with a depressing apathy.

Briefly, I considered walking to the docks and sitting around there, knotting my hands into the old, abandoned fishing nets, but I found my feet taking me in a different direction. Half an hour or so passed, and I stood at the foot of the Brooklyn bridge. After a moment of consideration, I started the journey across it. I still didn't know where I was going; I just knew that something deep down wanted to be suspended high above the water for a while, in a state of transition, crossing from one place to the next. "_It is not the destination that counted, but the path that is taken in getting there_," I thought to myself.

But when I reached the other side of the bridge, it was clear to me that my thirst for a new place, a new destination, and a new journey had not yet been satiated. I kept walking. Several hours passed. The streets grew thick with traffic as people started their lunch breaks.

As I walked farther, I started noticing more and more young men, a little older than myself. The area seemed heavy with them: young, well-dressed, scholarly-looking boys in their late teens. Many of them carried books, and seemed deep in conversation with one another. I spotted six or so in a café, sipping from large mugs, and listening to one of their friends read aloud something that sounded like Marlowe from a thick, leather-bound journal. Another pair stood next to one another, simultaneously reading a sheaf of typed, marked-over papers. I spotted a few more of them strolling along the sidewalk, joking with each other. I followed behind them, trying to be casual, and listened in on their conversation.

"Honestly, the hypocrisy of Professor Darning's theory makes me question his validity as an honorary faculty member. If he can't even hypothesize about Socrates, how can he be expected to educate? I mean really and truly _educate_?" said a clean-looking young man with neat black hair and small spectacles.

"I agree," replied a tall, handsome brunette. "And really… did you _see _his tie? To begin with it was a repulsive color – and it was on _backwards_!" He burst into a fit of giggles.

His two friends rolled their eyes at each other.

"Peter, please," said the third member of their party, "keep the discussion an intellectual assessment of Professor Darning's abilities, not of his taste in ties."

"Yes, really, Peter," said the fellow with black hair. "You're so queer sometimes." The two of them laughed and continued walking. Peter paused for a moment. I couldn't see the expression on his face, but could tell from the sag of his shoulders that he was hurt. A second went by, and then he hurried a few paces to catch up with them.

I dropped back a little, and watched the crowd swirl and mix in front of me. I'd missed the sound of intellectual voices. The harsh, short contractions of the newsies were in stark contrast to the complete sentences and proper grammar that I had grown up with and was wont to hear. It wasn't that I disliked the way the newsies spoke – though their incessant double negatives grated on my nerves – or even that I looked down on them for their speech (after all, I was one of them, wasn't I?). Truthfully, the upper-class patterns of speech and modes of communication just seemed so much warmer to my ears. It was as though there was a soft cloth covering everything they said, and even the insults seemed less abrasive than average.

I did feel bad for Peter though. I wanted to tap his rapidly disappearing shoulder and give him an empathetic smile. Just to tell him that I understood how he felt, perhaps. If only someone had done the same for me…

I felt the sharp sting of unwanted memories in the back of my mind, and pushed my feelings away quickly. Peter looked older than I was; he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

I walked onward in the opposite direction, still unsure of my actual whereabouts. There weren't any other newsies around me, and there was plenty of foot traffic – this would be the perfect selling spot, but it seemed almost vulgar to start yelling headlines here. I was sure that I looked out of place in my dirty, worn-down pants and shirt, but felt surprisingly unselfconscious anyway. For the most part, I spent my time looking at my surrounding, and enjoying the calmer atmosphere of wherever I was.

As I continued my stroll, ignoring the pangs of hunger beginning to take root in my stomach, I noticed even more young men and a large density of well-dressed, intellectual, older men as well. Ahead of me, I saw a neatly maintained, grassy, tree-filled lawn, scattered with tall brick buildings of a similar design. In an instant, it reminded me of some of the universities back in Boston.

So I was not, perhaps, as surprised as I should have been to look up at the sign on the wrought-iron gates in front of me and see it proclaim this soothing, intellectual paradise as the prestigious Columbia University.

* * *

Yay! I heart Columbia. Someday… far, far in the future… perhaps… I will own a Columbia sweatshirt. Haha. Sorry. That wasn't really funny. Okay, anyway: 

**Love97 – **You're right, kids can be cruel. I've experienced a fair share of adolescent cruelty myself. Haha, I'm a wimp compared to Sam though… physical violence scares the beejeesus out of me. As to your profile, I'm not quite sure what to tell you. Maybe you could try changing your username to something totally different and then changing it back? Or something? Good luck with that!

**Utopia Today – **Flashbacks are teh awesome. I'm trying to be very sneaky-like with Sam's personal history though, which is why I haven't used any more of them. OMGz, "Lost"! It was just a rerun for me though, which was disappointing. But it was the Claire episode, so that made me happy, and "Alias" came on after that, so it was Claire and then Jennifer Garner and whoa that was an awesome evening for me. Cough cough. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, YOUR BROTHER, AND YOUR BEST FRIEND! Had I known, I would have… I don't know… written you something? Or… like… sent you nekkid newsies. Or something.

I only got two reviews. That makes me sad. If I am sad, I have no will to write. If I have no will to write, then there are no more chapters. This is a not-so-well-disguised threat. Hahaha. Just kidding. I'll try to update within the next week or so. Please review!


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N: I'm still not satisfied with this chapter, but I'm posting it anyway, against my better judgement. I don't like the way the whole thing flows, and it seemed like every time I went back to proof it again, another stupid spelling or grammatical error showed up. Which leads me to my next item: I'm currently searching for a beta-reader. Just someone to bounce ideas off of, and read chapters ahead of time to look for gaping plot holes and little errors. If you'd be interested in helping me out, do drop me a line.

I can't think of anything else important to say. Um. I LOVE MAX CASELLA. SPOT/RACE FOR LIFE. LOLZ.

Okay. I'm done. Enjoy the chapter. Constructive criticism is, as always, very welcome.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Seven**

So this was the famed Columbia University. I had heard about it, read about it, even dreamed about it, but this was the first time I'd actually seen it. It was beautiful. I didn't know if I was actually allowed to go beyond the gates, but the fresh green grass was too tempting. I took a quick look around me and stepped inside. Once I'd found a cool, shaded spot under a tree I plopped down, my unsold newspapers beside me. Professors and students strolled along the path in front of me, laughing, pondering, and, above all, conversing. I caught what I could of the words, listening and savoring every syllable.

To my surprise, a quarter of an hour went by, and the same trio I had seen shortly before were heading my general direction.

"I'm quite excited about today's analyzation of current events, aren't you?

"Heavens yes. It promises to be absolutely fascinating."

"Oh damn," remarked the black-haired boy, who I pinned as their leader, "I forgot to save my newspaper from this morning."

"Well, that was silly of you, Dimitri. You've only been talking about this project for a month," Peter said.

"No need to be haughty, Peter. You haven't got one either, have you?" Dimitri reprimanded.

Peter checked his hands stupidly, as if he expected a paper to suddenly appear there. "I must have misplaced it."

"We'll have to get a couple more then. You don't mind, do you, Henry?"

Henry, the third member of the party, shook his head.

I sensed my chance, and rose quickly from my seat, grabbing my papers as I went. The boys had already started off back the way they had come.

"Excuse me," I called out.

They turned around. I hurried up to them.

"I beg your pardon. I couldn't help overhearing your conversation and wondered if I might be of assistance." I held out my papers for them to see.

The three stared at me as though one of the carriage-horses had stopped them in the middle of the street and started talking. Peter was the first to react.

"Look," he said in a hushed whisper, "it's a newsboy."

Dimitri blinked several times. "He doesn't sound like a newsboy."

"No, no, he's got papers and torn pants and everything," Peter objected. I thought, too late, of covering the patched-over rip in the knee of my trousers.

"Yes, but look at his posture. It's so straight," Dimitri argued.

"Good haircut, too," commented Henry. Peter and Dimitri nodded in agreement.

I cleared my throat a little, hoping they would remember that I was standing right there, and could hear everything they were saying about me.

They all started a little when I made a noise, and then Peter addressed me directly.

"Well? Are you a real newsboy?"

I nodded. "Real in form and function, though perhaps not always in spirit."

Dimitri shook his head in disbelief. "An honest to god intelligent newsboy. I barely believe it."

I furrowed my eyebrows, but shook off the unintentional insult. He didn't mean to be offensive.

"So, how much is a paper?" Peter asked.

"A penny."

Peter seemed dumbfounded for a moment. "That's less than buying them at the stand, and much less than getting them delivered!" he exclaimed.

Dimitri nodded. "My father pays a nickel every morning!"

"A nickel? That's a scam," I said authoritatively.

The three exchanged glances with one another, and I knew that my papers were as good as sold. They each bought one from me, and Peter bought a few extras, in case another classmate had forgotten theirs. He also gave me a generous tip. As they bought the papers we talked animatedly about the recent rise in the stock market. Henry was the only one who really seemed to care about it, and he seemed pleased to have someone to discuss it with.

"Will you be here tomorrow?" Peter asked as we finished our transaction and our conversation.

I shrugged. "That depends, I suppose."

"Come back; we'll buy from you again," Dimitri said commandingly. He gave me a wide grin, and I grinned back.

Maybe it was just because I was in a good mood, or maybe I had some sort of aura around me, but I started selling the rest of my papers on the way home and before I even reached the Brooklyn Bridge, I had sold fifteen – beating my standing record of ten papers a day. By the time I got home, the sun was setting. I met Smitty, Winner and Pokerface outside of the lodging house. I don't think I'd ever felt more proud of myself than when I pulled out a nickel that I'd made on my own, and paid for supper myself.

Potato waved to me from across the room when he came in for the night. I walked up to him, to inform him of my success. He slapped me on the back jovially, and congratulated me profusely, and then disappeared again. I felt decidedly independent. I went back to the poker game.

Lisa, Potato's sister, was busy most of the night, but she came over to chat while we played cards.

"Potato tells me you're making it on your own now," she said, perching on the arm of my chair.

I shrugged modestly. "I only sold fifteen papers. But yes, I suppose I'm starting to catch on."

She smiled at me proudly.

"Where'd you go to sell anyway, Sammy? We didn't run into you until just before supper," Smitty said, talking around his cigar.

I laughed. "Actually, I'm not sure. All I know is that I was at Columbia University. I can't even really remember how I got there."

The table hushed. They all stared at me.

"You went all the way to Columbia?" Winner said incredulously.

I nodded.

"But... but that must've taken hours. That's not even on this side of the bridge!"

"You went across the bridge?" Pokerface said, obviously impressed.

I nodded again. "It wasn't that big of a deal. It took a couple hours, I suppose."

Smitty shook his head. "You're insane, kid. Ain't nobody who just 'wanders' across the bridge." He chuckled to himself. "Columbia University... damn…"

Winner smiled. "Makes sense though, that he'd sell at a school. Start chatting up the college fellas, all smart-like."

Lisa wouldn't stop grinning at me. "Columbia University. Wow!" She turned around as the bell over the door jingled, and a fresh group of newsies came in. She sighed and rose to go to the counter. Her hand brushed gently across my cheek, and lingered there for a moment. "Congratulations, Sam."

The table burst into laughter and a few lewd comments. Lisa flushed and ran to the counter. I sat there, a little stunned perhaps, still feeling the warmth of her fingers pressed gently against my cheek. The skin around the area felt tingly, and very cold compared to the rest of my face. I buried my head in my hands. The boys continued to laugh, and Winner gave me a rough punch in the shoulder.

"Atta' boy... selling papes and getting girls in the same day... Lady Luck is smiling on you tonight!"

"Yeah, yeah," Pokerface interrupted, "let's see if she'll stick with him for another round." He dealt the cards out quickly.

We played again. Every now and then I glanced over my shoulder at Lisa. Half the time, she was looking at me too. She smiled shyly, and then turned back to the book she was reading.

It certainly had been a day of adventure, but all I could think about was tomorrow. I only hoped that I would be able to find my way back to the University the next day.

* * *

Uh-oh. Cliff hanger. Only… not.

So, I figured out why I'm in a bad mood. Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. Also known as Singles Awareness Day. I'mfeeling bitter and… very, very single right now. Damn happy couples! Anybody wanna be my sekrit online l0ver?

drunk!SpotMuse: Awww. I'll be your lover. :slur slur slur:

distinctlysober!Charlie: Ummm. Okay, shout-out time.

**Love97 – **A math test? Holy moly! Now _that's_ bohemian. Hahaha. And yes, Potato will definitely be reappearing. He'll play a very important part near the end of the story. But I'm not saying what. Muahahaha. Spot won't be back again for a couple chapters (at least, I don't think he will, but my stories have a habit of randomly changing themselves around. Damn muses) but I give you my word that drunk!Spot will show up several more times (and not just in the A/Ns).

**Utopia Today – **Ahaha. Racetracked. I like that. That's totally going to be a part of my everyday vocabulary now. And thank you for being proud of me – I'm rather proud of myself. RHM is now 17 pages in MS Word, size 10 font, making it the longest thing I've ever written.

Once again, only two reviews. Pretty pretty please with a naked (and freshly bathed) newsboy on top, tell your friends about "Right Hand Man". I live for feedback. :crunches down noisily on baked and salted reviews, with a side of whipped constructive criticism:


End file.
